That Dirty Songbird
by Houghtons
Summary: They maimed, they gored, they shagged. That was it. But this, this was never supposed to be part of the bargain. ButchxButtercup, Rated M for language and later chapters.
1. Green

Disclaimer: I don't own the Powerpuff Girls.  
>This is an attempt at a proper pregnant fiction, since all of the other ones I've seen seem a tad 'OH BUTCH I LOVE YOU, SNOG.'. Anywho, enjoy. This will have as many chapters as there are colours of the rainbow, so look forward to more BABIES.<p>

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><p>green. adj; the colour between blue and yellow in the colour spectrum; not fully developed or perfected in growth or condition; unripe; not properly aged<p>

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><p><strong>'<strong>**The Birth**'

Butch's eyes were filled with what only could be labelled as pure, unadulterated confusion.

Sprawled out in front of him on the slightly muddied carpet lay a wriggling mess of short, stubby limbs; it's emerald eyes boring into his own with a child's understanding that could simply be called 'recognition'. The previously mentioned mess cooed suddenly, adding irritation to the emotions that poured through the green antagonist at the given moment.

"Fuck it Butts, like hell are you leaving me with this thing alone. Stay here." Butch mumbled, running a shaken hand through his onyx-coloured hair. The thing, as Butch had stated, giggled at his voice, making the usually strong and aggressive male gulp in an unnatural, nervous manner.

It was an unusual, hated emotion – nervousness. One never experienced by Butch before he'd realised the manifesting bump that had then been Buttercup's stomach wasn't just a heap of fat. That her odd, insatiable cravings weren't just due to the fact that the chick was a fucking bottomless pit.

And now, several months later, they'd had this.

Wren, Buttercup's fucking daughter.

_Butch's _fucking daughter.

Of course, before the small girl's birth both he and Buttercup had never dreamed of having a kid, getting married, any of that mundane lovey-dovey shit; they fought, they fucked. That was just about the jist of it.

Never had either of the aggressive pair articulated statements like 'I love you', or 'You're my only', or any utter bullcrap like that. Hell, the most endearing nicknames they'd had for each other were 'fucktard' and 'asswipe', usually snarled by one at the other in enraged tones near climax or when pinned to the earth in the midst of bloodied rubble.

And yet the odd thing was, neither Buttercup nor Butch had wanted to end her pregnancy at any point.

Even after the initial shock Butch experienced when he'd finally come to the realization that the small, wriggling mess the kicked at his hand past Buttercup's bruised stomach lining was partly his, all he'd said was 'Well shit, looks like the apocalypse won't be zombies after all. Bring on the fucking demon babies.'

And she'd just snickered.

Maybe it was because both of them were stubborn; getting rid of the thing would be equivalent to losing a hard-fought battle, akin to giving in, surrendering.

And fuck if either of their overinflated egos would ever, _ever _allow them to do that.

But now that Butch thought of it, he sort of enjoyed the situation anyhow. This odd, abnormal family life the two now shared. Sure, while Buttercup was going through all of that trimester crap the violence had to be cut down a notch, and he couldn't just throw her down into their musty, sweat-scented bed and ravage her with all of his raw, masochistic strength like usual.

But he'd still had his fun with it.

Butch's devilish, characteristic smirk rose to his lips whenever he thought of the one night he'd brought a goat into their tiny roof-top apartment. Buttercup had snarled at him, demanding to know what the fuck he was playing at. He'd then innocently claimed he'd brought it to satiate one of her insane cravings, and though Butch couldn't fight back without damage to their little demon fetus – fuck, it was _good_when he felt her hands grasping violently around his jugular, her rounded belly pressing against his flattened, muscled one.

It was fucking _great_.

But now that Wren had actually been born, Butch had no idea where to even start.

After all, the first few months of Wren's life had been spent in the hospital – a super-human's birth turned out far more traumatic than that of a regular mother's (no one had ever known of live superhuman births before - after all, Butch been born in a fucking toilet and Buttercup in a beaker or some shit like that) - and so he'd never properly learned to care or, fuck it, even hold his kid (and Butch'd refused to take those shitty parenting classes – might as well put a label on 'em that reads 'perfect for those mundane pussies afraid to drop their ball-sack's creations').

Then, during her labour, Buttercup had matted up nearly a dozen pairs of sheets, the chemical x in her system barely having enough power or time to regenerate the amount of blood she was losing. And by the time Wren had literally clawed her way out from her mother, Buttercup, as strong and brutal as she was, was left more weary and damaged than after any brawl she'd ever had with her child's father, leaving the hospital staff no choice but to leave Buttercup and her newborn daughter under intensive care

Secretly, Butch called it his greatest victory.

Secretly, it gave him endless pleasure to assume his balls pack a worse punch than his fists.

But fuck that, back to the whole hospital situation; with Buttercup having severe rehabilitation and all that crap in the intensive care wing, Wren was left in the maternity ward, slowly growing by her recuperating and annoyed mother whilst all Butch could do was stare from behind a thin film of glass, stopping by a few times a day to insult and, as a result, receive as good a beating as he could get until he'd be escorted from the hospital premises by irritated staff.

But now, Buttercup was back, her and Butch's four month old mess in hand.

They'd decided on Wren - she'd only been named today – if only because Buttercup had been too lazy and Butch always wanted his say in every matter he came in contact with (he felt that it gave him power over everyone). Personally, he'd wanted something kick-ass, like 'Adolf' or 'Hammer and Sickle', but that snickered suggestion resulted in a temporarily dislocated shoulder and a delicious little cut above his right leaf-coloured eye, not that he was complaining. Plus, it pleased Butch endlessly when from the corner he heard Wren chirp a happy little giggle when the red blood began to slowly ooze into his eye cavity, clapping her tiny hands and twirling her onyx-clad head at the small show of gore.

She really _was_ the daughter of Butch and Buttercup.

And at that 'joy'-tinted moment, Wren also happened to be named. When Buttercup's angered fist had contacted Butch's then-whole shoulder, a rough, hazy song was heard from the shit-covered windowsill outside the residence. It was strong, happily reminding Butch of the throaty yet light groans made by either himself or Buttercup when thrown into the crumbling pavement from a high distance above, their mingled blood flowing into the dark asphalt below. They'd verbalize lividly, cursing away like a certain, stupid bird.

He'd smirked. Wren - it was fitting.

It was good.

The perfect mixture of innocence, lust and violence.

And so their disgusting little songbird as named.

Yet as lovely as the moment had been – the perfect pain, the stupid, long overdue naming, the fucking cunt Butch paired himself with had to ruin the 'moment'.

Just two days after her return from the ward, with this hellish, foreign infant who could already float with a tiny emerald streak behind her, Buttercup was leaving to fight. Her muscles hadn't faded during her bed-ridden months, that was for sure – he could see them moving slickly, scarred from dozens of violent clashes (and fuckings, Butch couldn't resist mentioning) with him, under the surface of Buttercup's hoodie.

Butch licked his lips, the sensual purr that came from between his lips unable to hide the nervous nature his words honestly held; "Fuck it Butts, like hell are you leaving me with this thing alone. Stay here."

"Oh fuck off; it's just a couple of hours. Don't be a pussy."

"A couple of hours with a meat sack that _I. can't. punch."_ Though her back was to him, facing broadly towards the single smudged mirror in their north Townsville flat, Butch could see Buttercup's facial muscles flex as she rolled her emerald eyes; "Oh no, you poor fucktard. What am I thinking, leaving you here without a chew toy."

Butch snarled quietly, earning a giggle from the black and jade onesie-clad toddler calmly mouthing the soles of his Doc Martins beneath him. As gently as a usually brash alpha male like Butch could, he attempted to move his expensive footware from Wren's reach, disgusted at the slobber that now covered the expensive onyx fabric.

Wren simply hiccuped, resorting to floating towards the shoe after finding crawling too lengthy and bothersome. In response, Butch lifted his feet and resorted to reclining on the dusty black-fabric sheets he and Buttercup shared, leaving Wren hissing in space a few centimetres from the floor.

Like hell would he get these babies soiled, it took a good half hour to steal 'em properly.

Without turning, Buttercup snarled, still adjusting her clothing and taping her oddly smooth knuckles with a grisly cream-coloured tape usually reserved for the most elite boxers; "Get your fucking feet off our sheets."

"Bugger off, I don't want it's mouth-piss on my shoes. God, I could've used a condom." Butch snickered, earning a scoff and a second round of eye-rolling from his counterpart.

"It's Wren, get it right, assface. I'll be back soon. If she gets hungry, just give her your man-tits. I'm sure yours're bigger than mine." And before Butch could comment on her lovely, lovely bussom, or at least give a 'fuck you', Buttercup was off, that characteristic emerald stripe trailing behind her in a sin curve.

And Butch was alone.

With a baby.

A fucking baby that stared up at him with a faint smile gracing it's lips. Butch blinked warily, that shit emotion of nervousness returning to his fidgeting frame.

He couldn't hit this.

He couldn't insult it.

And he defiantly couldn't fuck it. And hell, that was basically all Butch knew how to do.

"Hey," The green male muttered, suddenly aware of how his cocky, self-promoting power had drained in just a few single moments. "…So. You like beer? God, fuck, you're a kid. No beer until you're 36 or some shit like that, all right?"

Wren just giggled in response, rolling onto her back and fiddling with the anterior-most ends of her onesie; she couldn't understand him even if she tried, but fuck if Butch could do anything other than talk to it, _to her_.

The uncertainty triggered Butch's characteristic unnerved action; he ran a hand through his slick, over-jelled spikes.

Wren blew a bubble, popping it with the tiny, pink end of her delicate tongue. Butch chuckled softly, crossing his hands over his broad, scarred chest. Fuck it – he could do this. If he could sex a Powerpuff, if he could take down a skyscraper, he could – and he wanted to stab himself for lack of a better word – father a child.

Smirking at the slight, but building confidence he now experienced, Butch shoved his rough, calloused fingers under the soft and thus-far unscathed underside of Buttercup's, and his, kid.

She gurgled in what seemed to be a happy nature as Butch slid the untamed mess onto his lap, giving himself the chance to observe this tiny superhuman properly for the first time, no glass, blood or bruises obscuring his view.

Wren was small, obviously.

But small even so for a toddler – at least to the ones he'd seen. Her skin was pale, not yet exposed to the harsh, summer sunlight or anything that might mar it's marble-like perfection (and Butch was rather sure he'd tear at least one limb off of anyone who would try. After all, this little female clump was his property, at least by half).

Wren's eyes were a bright, deep green; almost oxidized copper in their tone, with an intensity that was other-worldly.

It unnerved Butch slightly; these were intelligent eyes, a far cry from a stupid, wailing new-borns'. Come to think, not once since her birth had Butch heard the little meat-sack sob; and quite frankly, thank _fuck_. Shaking himself of his previous thoughts, Butch let his eyes move further on.

This little songbird had hair in likeness to both of her parents; it was short, choppy and almost punk-like, to Butch's satisfaction.

Fucking bad-ass, if he said so himself.

Wren's fists, thought tiny and smooth when compared to his, held an obvious power thought when when gripped at him, his feet, or anything for that matter. He was sure, even in their minuscule size, that she could crush bones if she'd honestly wanted to. Chemical X was defiantly coursing through the kid's veins. She could float, though not yet fly, so that much was obvious anyway; "I bet you'll be the shit out of any toddler in pre-school, huh? Well, s'long as you bring me back a trophy; get the big boys first, steal their trucks fer me. Better than any fucking football plaque, eh?"

Butch grinned, unable to help himself. In response, Wren stopped her own observations of Butch to return a lopsided grin, wiggling her short arms. Unfortunately, due to her age and the coordination that came with it, the tiny child lost her balance and fell forward, her flopping hands landing in the tiniest of embraces around her father's strong, built waist.

And Butch froze.

Never, never fucking ever had Butch hugged; never once in his long, shitty life.

He'd grabbed, tackled, and choked, but never _hugged. _It was an uncomfortable, foreign motion – a caring one, nothing that had ever been programmed or entered into Butch's primitive mind; nothing the male ever thought he'd be forced to comprehend.

And yet, with gentleness as to not injure the small child below him, Butch found the arms that had maimed and broken so many to be cradling the small child in his lap, who smiled and cooed in response. Butch gulped, licking at the dryness that now coated his lips.

And yet, this wasn't as bad as Butch had feared at the initial contact. If this was the shit that awaited him, the alpha male that always considered himself near god-like had a whole crapload left to learn.

This wasn't punching.

This wasn't violence.

This wasn't sex.

But this wasn't bad. And carefully, Butch began to swing his arms from side to side; a rocking motion, something he'd seen Buttercup do through the dirtied windows of the hospital, a frown creasing her brow as she'd hum something to their child. It seemed to be working; Wren's large, strong eyes began to lose their intensity, their closing time in-between blinks growing longer and longer.

And Butch began to hum, a grotesque and grisly tune, but a tune nonetheless; "_Miss Lucy had some leeches, the leeches like to suck, and when they drank up all her blood she didn't give a fuck, when the doctors_…"

He murmured, he rasped.

This would be a long and violent road with a girl that he'd rather fuck than make love to, snog rather than kiss, tear at rather than caress.

And this fucking lump, this accidentally-conceived thing was thrown into the middle of Butch and Buttercup's unstable, and as much as Butch hated to admit it, _loving _relationship.

And somehow, as he waited for that very same fuckable green-clad female to return, Butch smirked at knowing that he'd not have it any other way.

At the very least, this would be interesting.

At the very least, this would be green.


	2. Blue

Disclaimer: I don't own the Powerpuff Girls.  
>And now I give you, Butch thinking Wren is insane and feeling sad for the first time. PSST, PSST. WREN WREN'T DREAMIN'.<p>

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><p>blue. adj; the colour of the sky; holding or offering little hope; dismal; bleak<p>

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><p>'<strong>One Year Old<strong>'

The room was dark, warm, and full of activity.

In the small cavern's rightmost corner lay a duo, visible only by the glistening of the stars that cascaded through their open window. A tangle of powerful limbs held the two together like a cluster of the coldest hibernating snakes, though the temperature between them was far from low.

This pair, famed in their lust, brutality and strength, was Butch and Buttercup.

Panting wildly, Butch snarled, baring his untainted teeth; the glint of the moon caught the shining white edge, illuminating it in a brutal glory as he dove down on his partner, sinking the sharpened edges into the sensitive flesh of her neck.

Below him, clad in nothing but a vividly torn, silken nightshirt, Buttercup snickered, raising a hand that seemed as fragile yet emotive as porcelain to grasp Butch's spiked, onyx locks; her voice raspy with a slew of emotions; "Is that all you got, fucktard?"

This time it was Butch's turn to snort, but as he opened his mouth, hand reaching down to grab the edge of his own shredded boxers, a noise echoed through the small, four roomed apartment the two superhumans shared.

A cry, no, a call – that of a small, stubborn, and intelligent infant.

Wren.

"I'm not gettin' it." Buttercup spoke softly, almost instantly, closing her vivid green eyes and nestling into the storm-grey bed sheets she and Butch shared, her small, pink tongue darting from her mouth to lick at a still-bleeding bite wound below her lower lip.

Butch licked his own pair, swollen and red, in response, lowering himself closer to his partner until her hovered only a pair of centimeters above Buttercup; "And you think I am, I've got a fucking monster dancing around in my—"

"Not gettin' it." Buttercup repeated, her eyes still fluttered closed, hands now invisibly inspecting the bruises and gashes that cascaded over her arms, legs and stomach. In any other household, these violent marks would be considered a severe case of domestic violence.

But for Butch and Buttercup?

Fucking awesome foreplay.

Butch rolled his eyes, prying himself from the severely tangled and torn duvet.

He'd have to get yet another this week, they were going through the things faster than toilet paper.

"Shit, fine. Whatever. I'll go bone our daughter, have fun touching yourself up." Buttercup snarled from behind Butch's turned back, cracking a foot as it collided with his marred vertebral line.

The marred and aggressive male chuckled; the payment had been dealt, he'd check on the fucking kid now.

And so Butch sauntered into the darkness of the near-windowless flat, his chemical x dimly lighting the way like the darkened optical of a cat. Nonetheless he reached a marked hand out, his scars as his only tattoos, occasionally touching a dirt-coated wall as a second reassurance to the fact that Butch wasn't ramming himself into anything solid.

And then, he was there.

The fourth room was smaller than the rest, on the opposite end on the tiny corridor that made up Buttercup and Butch's living space. The only other rooms within the whole settlement were the bathroom and kitchen, and like fuck would this shitty wunderkind be next to his bratwurst or condoms, those prizes were fucking gold.

As Butch entered the tiny archway, he gave himself a second chance to look around; the walls of the room were simple. Some spots of the faded viridian paint were charred – a result of Wren learning that her strength wasn't her only weapon, but that her tiny eyebeams could pack quite a punch as well.

The ceiling was low; a single lamp, that constantly flickered, to light the space in the evenings hung from it's middle. One baby picture was framed next to one of the two large windows the room held, yielding Butch smirking in the view of most of the shot, with Buttercup holding Wren in the background, an annoyed look on her brow as her sisters cooed over the ebony baby nestled in her arms.

Wren's birth certificate hung next to the neighboring large window, boldly yielding her date of birth – 364 days from the current day – and pronouncing Butch himself and Buttercup as the infant's conceivers.

The furniture in the room was scarce, a simple rocking chair with a chipped dark-grey paint sat in the corner, slewed over with stickers from the Cockney Rejects, Sex Pistols, and whatever the fuck Butch felt like plastering on it to give it his edge.

A broken guitar lay in the opposite corner of the room, followed by a tiny (also plastered) dresser that held pint-sized clothing and blankets, with the most prized item in the Jojo household adjacent to it.

A wide screen television.

With six different consoles, and hundreds of games. Oh, the fucking _orgasmic_ games.

Butch gulped down the mouthful of drool that built on his tongue – he'd save his baby until morning. For now, the most important manner of his visit lay in the final piece of furniture within the musty flat's carravice.

Wren, nestled in a chipped and faded oaken crib, with tiny demonic ornaments swirling in a circle above her. She cooed as Butch approached her, her oxidized-copper toned eyes twinkling in the lunar light with awareness and excitement.

"Hey Himmler, how's daddy's favourite little cock-blocker?" Butch murmured as softly as his rigged voice would allow, smirking characteristically as Wren wriggled her arms toward him, asking to be lifted from the prison she could easily escape herself (and had done so many times, Butch noted, resulting in complex-wide searches).

"Ahm bowered." Wren gurgled out, sloppy in her undeveloped tongue – still, the super-powered toddler was brilliant, far more advanced than any at her current age.

While most babies could only spit out 'mama' or 'dada' at a full year of age, Wren could already throw out comprehendible phrases and be fully aware of anything her parents echoed towards her or one another.

She could walk, float, and fly higher than her original height (the distance and leverage seemed to come as the tiny thing grew and developed), and perform simple actions like flushing the toilet and standing on her own, though for some reason shoving food in Wren's own hole was still a difficult task for the wunderkind.

"Tah-mawwows mah biwf-dai." Wren bubbled out, a pretty little smile caressing her rose-red lips. She twirled her head, and the messy, punk-like onyx hair bounced in response, slightly past ear length in it's height.

"Yeah, it is, isn't it? Fuck, it's been a year since Butts popped you from her cunt," Butch snickered, never afraid to sensor his language around the happy, knowing toddler he fathered.

That, Butch decided, was for sensitive pussies; "You caused quite a bit of coochie-carnage there, Adolfo."

He reached down as he spoke, lifting Wren from her aging crib and placing her against his scraped, bare chest. The child smiled, receiving exactly what she wanted from Butch, and she laid a tiny porcelain hand against his arm, surprised to find the area wet, slick with the tiniest film of crimson. Naturally, Wren had to question this; "Shwaggin' mamuh?"

Butch snorted, and not wanting to feel left out, Wren chuckled with him, clapping her reddened hands together.

"Yeah kid, we were makin' you a brother. Someone won't need sex ed when they're older, eh?"

Wren had bellowed in the middle of so many sessions and had so been exposed to their brutal foreplay; she seemed immune and even charmed whenever Butch or Buttercup exited their room, coated in scratches and sweat. She found it fascinating, and that fact pleased Butch even more.

She was growing more and more into a kid that the greens wouldn't mind heralding as their own.

And now, rocking Wren in the toned arms, Butch began to recall his original purpose for leaving his fucking wonderful sexing session; "So is that it kid, yah ready to head back to dozing school and get some hot dream-toddler ass?"

But Wren shook her head, tapping Butch's arm with a child's impatience. Her fragile brow knit together, as if in serious thought, before Wren finally seemed to find a fitting combination of words to speak.

"Mawmah came two meh yestahday, an' 'er fayc waz wett, laaik rayn."

Butch raised an eyebrow, slightly distraught and puzzled. Yesterday had been a clear, sunny day.

And Butch defiantly recalled, he fucking hated the sun.

But nonetheless, the brutish and aggressive male had been out, called across town to do one of the few kind acts of his existence - to help deal with the newly born spawn of Brick and that fucking stupid, red-coloured mate of his, Blossom. Just a month before they'd birthed an auburn-haired male with dark, crimson eyes, who 'in the (shitty) bird theme' was named Warbler.

Personally, Butch would've gone with Woodcock. Or at least Willow Tit.

But back to the matter at hand. What the fuck? Buttercup wet, Buttercup crying? While he was away?

_Crying_?

She had to be shitting him.

The thought brought a slight clump into Butch's stomach, and though he'd fucking hate to admit it, it was defensiveness.

Buttercup, no matter how distant-yet-close their relationship was, was Butch's property; she was his mark. They weren't married, not even under a civil union, but she was defiantly and uniquely his. Therefore, anything that made the violence-inclined Powerpuff upset was his fucking business; "Why was she wet, Wren? Can you give me some details? Try hard, love."

Butch was rarely gentle; rarely spoke a phrase without 'fuck, shit, ass' or 'bitch' somewhere in context. And when prying for information, he was often more destructive than his normal program.

But this was Wren, and she held his roots. So intuitively, instinctively, Butch knew the only way to get the intelligent toddler to spill details was to give her the upper hand, the power, in this situation. And the gut-driven instinct payed off; Wren gave a child's smirk, though her eyes held an obvious worry for the female she fed from, the one called her mother. She thought for a moment, forming phrases, then spoke; "Ahh theenk, mawmuh theenks yoo donnea cahre 'boat her orh, uuh, luhve huhr, ahh theenk."

The statement caught Butch off guard; he wasn't sure what he was expecting but, fuck, it sure as hell wasn't that. The near-naked female that he'd left just minutes ago, sprawled out and moaning after a violent foreplay, her dark emerald eyes sparkling with a disdain for anything mundane or ordinary, never caught Butch as anyone who would ever care for that kind of shit.

Buttercup, even after the birth of Wren, had always said she'd hated him, that she just fucked him, and he her; she snorted whenever the two stopped at Boomer and Bubble's household, gagging and cursing under her breath as they whispered sweet nothings betwixt one another. She hated everything about their relationship, and she'd said she wouldn't have it any other way.

This was Buttercup, and Buttercup certainly never cared.

So Butch smiled wearily, a pang of a foreign emotion hitting him; soft, but still there. In wretched at his stomach, and he felt a slight prick at the sides of his eyes that wasn't pain, wasn't pleasure.

It was odd, blue, cold, and it made him sick. Butch snarled, violently enough to spook the tiny little songbird still cradled within his arms into a slight yelp.

He apologized, carefully laying Wren down into her cradle and commanding the child to forget about the shit event and go to sleep; Butch was finding it more than a tad difficult to keep his voice level.

Cursing loudly once he left into the empty crevices of the hallway as he exited the 'nursery', Butch struck himself in the stomach. The impact caused the male to sputter wildly, but Butch smirked as a line of slobber traced down his sculpted chin.

That was better, that cleared his mind.

Wren had probably dreamed it all, she'd been read too many of tose sitty fairytails.

Buttercup didn't care, as always.

And Butch had nothing to worry about.

Tomorrow was Wren's Birthday.


	3. Indigo

Disclaimer: I don't own the Powerpuff Girls.  
>Fuck, I've updated twice in a day. Can't say I can help it, I've had this chapter stuck in my head before I even started the story. Summary? Pick up baby, feed baby, snog, new baby, feed baby.<p>

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><p>indigo. adj; any of a group of colours that have the same blue-violet hue; a spectral colour; characterizes the attitude of collective calm.<p>

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><p>'<strong>Five Years Old<strong>'

The fall wind was slow and smooth, blowing quietly through the spikes of a certain male's well-gelled obsidian locks.

Butch, weight crookedly shifted to his left leg, sucked in long and hard on the half-burned fag that hung from the marred corner of his mouth.

A customary and natural smirk graced his chiselled, well-sculpted features as he leaned against the trunk of an aged oak tree, just outside of the ever-stationary Pokey Oaks Kindergarten he'd known for so long.

Butch's tight-fit omphasite toned shirt was torn, swaying gently in the autumn wind along with his equally ripped onyx jeans. His jarring look was strong, focused; staring at the directly at the stern, rightmost door of the just mentioned kindergarten, a portrait of authority.

And yet, an agitated state crossed the powerful antagonist's face as minutes continued to pass by, his now-worn cigarette shrinking in length and eventually tumbling to the earth; the small glowing embers faded as Butch crushed them into the worn ground beneath his heels, and he glanced to the side, his hyper-focused vision aiming in on a digital clock flickering next to the steering wheel of a far-off hybrid.

Glowing brightly despite the heavy distance, Butch clearly made out several blinking digits, prominently reading '3:27'. Satisfied, that ever present smirk returned to the historically-brutal male's face.

Any minute now, and she'd be out.

His girl; fucking brilliant, strong and even at the tiny age of five, the spitting image of her parents.

Butch and Buttercup's little songbird.

Wren.

As if on cue, a shrill bell pierced the thin membrane that held Butch's sensitive hearing, and his feet rose from the earth below on instinct, as he drifted slightly into the air above, a small green essence glowing about his figure.

Today was Butch's turn; he and Buttercup didn't exactly alternate pick-up days, it usually just depended on who the fuck wasn't lazy enough to draw their ass from the duvets, couch, or refrigerator. But to be fair, Butch didn't exactly complain when being sent to pick up the pair's little kissass.

He had a connection with Wren that he couldn't quite identify; fuck, in the five years Butch had housed a roof and kid with Buttercup, he'd gotten a lot of emotions piled into him that his primitive brain didn't quite have the capacity to comprehend. But fuck it, he didn't really care.

He was born in a shithouse, after all.

Not too many high expectations come with that.

And plus, today also seemed an especially good day to leave the nest; Buttercup had basically blown Butch's ass out of their roof-top flat out when he'd managed to pick up on her odd traces of behaviour the past few days. All he'd done was ask her why she was acting like such an asshole lately.

Well, at least, more of an asshole than usual.

Nothin' wrong with a question like that, right?

And so, Butch drifted, lighting up slightly as he spotted a familiar dusty kid hopping from the neatly-painted pre-school doors.

Wren was smirking, a trait she carried on from her parents, tiny vintage rucksack hanging loosely from her obsidian-hoodied shoulders. Butch opened his mouth to call to her, but paused in momentary disgust as he noticed a second wunderkind trailing behind his genetically-rugged daughter.

Warbler, the fucking spawn of Brick and Blossom, slightly smaller than Wren due to her being 11 months his superior.

His hair was longer than Wren's, a light auburn in the spitting image of his mother. It was messy, hidden under a signature red cap that had once belonged to the boy's father. His dress was neat, a bit too perfected – it was obvious to Butch that the kid's prickish mother dressed him. Warbler's eyes, however, were dark, almost crimson. His attitude, like his eyes, screamed Brick through and through, and he perched over Wren despite his lesser age, attempting to claim dominance with his 'superior intellect' and 'leader-like genetics'.

It pleased Butch ninety fuckloads to see Wren's utterly uncaring face in response to nearly every comment the kid threw at her.

Then next in line, Butch's eyes traced to a third, baby blue hump following the uninterested pair in utter silence.

This was the latest addition to the new super-children of Townsville - a tiny, nervous 4 year old lump that went by the name of Weaver. From what Butch recalled, his overly-tender parents (the notorious Boomer and Bubbles) had gone full blown on the poor little sod, naming him with the 'sophisticated title' of Weaverbird Boomeric Jojo.

Thankfully, Butch managed to verbally beat it into their thick skulls that the spectacle-clad tyke would be the laughing stock of his school if Boomer or Bubbles didn't at least give the feeble little shitwad a nickname, and thus simple Weaver was born.

The azure wonder was always last, Butch noted, when leaving Pokey Oaks. Whilst Wren and Warbler battled for dominance betwixt one another, shoving with all the strength their young, fit bodies could muster, Weaver trailed behind sloppily, a shy blush on his cheeks and his tiny fingers on his ever-clean spectacles, positioning them endlessly.

The only positive aspect on Weaver that Butch could see didn't scream 'beat me to a pulp' was Weaver's dress – thank fuck that at least Boomer didn't want his kid mauled. A baby-blue flannel jacket was tossed messily around Weaver's shoulders, with a white polo underneath. His jeans, torn, though to a much lesser extent than Butchs', were well put, just barely showing the edges of his white-and-azure sneakers.

All in all, the three were a stupid, new, and crap generation.

Except for Butch's daughter, of course. Wren was the fucking best.

Tossing his ebony hair from his face, Butch let out a shrill whistle, turning his attention to his just-mentioned spawn; "Oi, Himmler! Who's your fucking daddy?"

Wren turned instantly, losing interest in the two mini-heroes that trailed alongside her, eyes fixated on Butch with that beautiful, joyous smile that reminded him heavily of a certain emerald female when gnawing down on a chunk of her favourite dead animal.

Nearby parents turned their heads, disgusted by the references and poor language that Butch constantly used when in the presence of small children, but fuck if he cared.

Wren didn't seem to give a shit either; she returned the comment with her own filth, picked up from her parent's daily conversations long before she even knew how to annunciate; "Fuck off, daddy. Hey!"

Responding smoothly, Butch lowered himself onto the ground, sliding onto one knee and opening his heavily-bruised arms. In response, an action she anticipated daily, Wren left behind her two little mates and charged towards Butch, lunging into his mass and enclosing the male in a tight hug; "Love yuh. You ready?"

"Hell yeah, but let's get some eats before we head home, eh? Fucking starving here, love. …Plus, your cunt of a mother's shoved me out again." Wren scrunched her nose in response, cocking her head to the side. But, after a few passed seconds, the tiny puff gave a curt nod, her naturally-spiked locks giving their customary bounce.

As both Wren and Butch took off, a sinusoidal tide of green flowing behind them, Wren floated onto her side. It was another habitual action; a motion the young girl did when preparing to express the labours of the day to either or both of her parents.

"So today was fucking awesome, daddy. I was doodling, no, shit, wait, uh… drawing this whole big project, right? And then, Holly Brown came over and said 'Well that's just a scribble', so I hit her in the nose and all, and called her a pussy like you said. And I only got a five minute time out!" Wren giggled gleefully, wrapping her two slender hands over the bridge of her nose and she twirled about her airspace, pleased at her own actions.

Butch snickered alongside with Wren, floating close enough to give a high five without knocking the girl's small mass from the sky, and tussling her hair as a second action; "That's m'girl."

Pleased as his response, Wren pressed her lips into a joy-suppressing line, gliding starboard to perch a few unstable centimetres over Butch's planked back. The primal instinct to maim anything above his dorsal side had long been suppressed by Butch, leaving the alpha male to only smile at his clever kid's playful antics.

"So why did mum kick you out? Did you try n' shag her on the kitchen table again?"

Butch snorted, rolling his characteristic emerald orbs; "I wish, oh do I fucking wish. That, was an_ awesome _lay. But nah, no clue why, Himmler-o. Haters gonna hate, 'suppose."

It was Wren's turn to roll her eyes, rumbling her lips into a high-pitched scoff.

At the small age of five, she was completely immune to any sexual talk her father threw towards her. After finding it customary in her living place, it had confused Wren to no end when she'd found out that cussing and saying things like 'fuck' were a big no-no in a stable kindergarten environment.

But among her parents, Wren was free to badmouth like the vilest of sailors.

"Fuck you, daddy. Just figure it out, I don't want you guys breaking my walls down again and everything in your yelly-fits, I had to work _reaaally_ hard to get 'em up last time," Wren pouted, her emotions sparking as she crossed her arms. "…And don't be an ass. N' stop flying."

Butch couldn't help but chuckle darkly, slowing his pace and lowering the altitude of his flight as they approached a small and unpopulated food-market plaza.

Wren had obviously inherited the green pair's traits of dominance and aggression, and already they were starting to firm out and implant themselves within her tiny frame. More and more she was challenging Butch or Buttercup, but in a matter gentle enough that all Butch could do was snicker and rustle her ebony locks.

He liked her, maybe something beyond that.

Wren was one of the only things Butch enjoyed that he wouldn't maul.

Well, that and his Playstation.

He'd never touch his fucking Playstation.

Escaping his own thoughts, Butch touched down to the earth, his feet gently slapping the asphalt, followed by the heavier and not-yet-as-stealthy slap of Wren. As he dumped his hands into his pockets, trying to dig out a couple bucks or loose change, Wren B-lined from behind him, creating the smallest of gusts as she sprinted with an excited vigour towards a crusty old Subway that lay across the bleak parking lot.

And Butch watched her, a characteristic smirk apparent on his lips. Quietly, an inaudible gush to a regular human's ears, he whispered; "'Ts my girl."

Smirking still, the dominant walked after Wren, looking up as the sky began to turn from a dying crimson to that infamous calm, meditative indigo – the indication of light's final charge before the ever prevalent troops of the night stormed over to claim it, finally coating the heavens in black.

It was a good day.

And then a slender, familiar hand clasped over Butch's shoulder.

Despite the knowing touch, he wheeled – the parking lot had been near empty before, not a soul walking the dried asphalt just moments before.

It was natural that Butch snarled, his hand reaching to grasp the throat of his approacher as he'd hurl them against the darkening earth; it was purely defensive, instinctual even, especially with young in the present area.

But it was also Buttercup.

A shocked expression now slowly morphed into a rage upon her delicate, stained face. And as the emotions played, Butch faintly recognized that something, just something was not right.

Her face.

Butch released, and he stared.

It was wrong, her visage, but in the quickness of the situation he couldn't place it. Butch's mind set to work, the gears were turning slowly, trying to contrast familiarity with this dusk-illuminated figure before him.

And then it hit him.

Buttercup's eyelashes were wet, moulded together with half-dried droplets. Tear trails marked down the sides of her cheeks, wetting the pale porcelain flesh. Her lips, raw from being chewed, were puffed out; unnatural. Butch tensed, his mind unwillingly flashing back to a certain scenario from many years back.

'_Buttercup never cries._'

And yet, here she was, and before Buttercup could react to the hand that had left her throat just a split second before, Butch's hands were enclosed upon her again.

Or rather, around her. It surprised the normal brutal male himself, how for once in his life he was embracing someone other than his daughter or himself.

Someone, who perhaps, he should've embraced long before.

"That fuck's wrong with you?" Butch muttered, but the words were soft, caring, spoken in a tone he used when coaxing Wren from those shitty nightmares that plagued her occasionally; "Why'd you kick me out, you cunt? Why're you crying?"

But Buttercup was silent, tense. Never before put in the situation where Butch's arms were doing anything other than beating the nerves from her shaken frame, or touching her where she wanted it most. She was quiet, and Butch waited, grunting every few seconds to remind himself of the constant passage of time.

And then, Buttercup spoke, her mouth muffled against the thin fabric that was her mate's half-disintegrated t-shirt; "S… Sorry."

Butch rolled his eyes, but a slight smile was raised to play on his lips.

"Oh, fuck you and your sorry. Give me a Buttercup answer." He said, surprising himself when Butch realised his voice was still remaining in that gentle, coaxing tone. Surprised that Buttercup hadn't thrown him in the pavement thus far. Surprised she'd said the word, 'sorry', or that she'd ever even known what it meant.

_Butch_ barely knew what it meant.

Buttercup shook slightly beneath him at the words, running a jolt through Butch's well-muscled frame until he recognized the epileptic motions as laughter; "Fine, assface. Give me yer hand."

Complying almost instantaneously, Butch elongated a marred limb as Buttercup took it in her own. His thin eyebrows raised, Butch watched the flesh's trail as he and Buttercup separated from their embrace, his hand finally ending up in the long space below the rounds of Buttercup's breasts.

Her stomach.

At first, Butch detected nothing, confusion rearing it's head rather quickly. It was just that – a stomach.

But then, the pads of Butch's hyper-sensitive fingers involuntarily tensed, a momentary seizure of muscle fibres, clenched. And there, under Butch's palm, barely noticeable but still there, was a tiny, defined bump.

Oh shit, he _was_ an assface.

At his silence, Buttercup's eyebrows knitted together in her characteristic mark of frustration, mixed with a newly-added tinge of nervousness; "..Well? Speak up, fuckin' retard."

The emerald maiden spoke quietly.

Butch gulped, opened his mouth. Gulped a second time. And spoke.

"...Fuck yeah, bring on the demon babies."

And Buttercup snorted, relief evident across her face as she smashed that all-too familiar fist into the side of Butch's leftmost bicep, giggling. The alpha male grinned in response, lifting his good hand to run it through the gelled spikes that were his locks; "Shoulda told me sooner, fuckface."

"Didn't want to."

"Retard."

"Asswipe."

The insults plagued for another minute; they were common, rude, angered, and stupid.

And Butch wouldn't have it any other way.

Grin morphing into that infamous all-knowing smirk, he reached a hand towards Buttercup, grasping her thin-framed chin in his hand, quietly admiring the tiny scars that cascaded across the surface, invisible to all but his focused retinas. Her mouth, caught in the middle of a slander, froze

Butch tipped his cranium, graceful and yet with a characteristic roughness. His emerald eyes glinted as they fell into a closed swoop, and he dove down onto those swollen, still-soft lips he knew so well.

And the sky was indigo.

Butch was home, there within his mate; there within Buttercup.

As they broke, glassy-eyed and gasping for a breath of the new-night's breeze, Butch smiled wearily; "Come on, Wren's probably pissing her pants waiting for us, an' I bet she'll want to know what the fuck's manifesting in that womb of yours."

Buttercup smirked, no unfinished insult escaped from between her lips; "'Kay."

"…Oi, Butts."

"Mhrm?"

"D'I ever say that I like yah?"


	4. Violet

Disclaimer: I don't own the Powerpuff Girls.  
>The only part of the fanfiction that isn't from Butch's perspective, right here. I did it so this fanfiction doesn't just come off as crude and violent, and so I really got to shape-out and rough what I think of my characters and their traits in this chapter. Enjoy!<p>

Also, I will write more about Widow in the next chapter, she's just briefly mentioned here.

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><p>violet. adj; the colour of serenity, quality and truth; a small, fragile spring-blooming flower.<p>

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><p>'<strong>Ten Years Old<strong>'

Wren didn't recall ever being this happy before.

Her location was simple, no amusement park or attraction in sight to cause the joy that surged through the small wunderkind. In fact, all that lay in the nearby surroundings were a few heavily chipped desks, a pile of papers and a teal chalkboard, stained with a couple of pale white lines a teacher had failed to erase.

But what made all of the mundane setting come together were two people standing sluggishly in the room's rightmost corner; Wren's strong, independent parents, Butch and Buttercup.

A third person, sitting in a tangent to Wren under a wide, glistening oaken writing desk, raised herself at the arrival of the two green-clothed adults. She was smiling, well dressed, a small plastic plate on her chest reading the words 'Mrs. Davis'.

"Mister and Misse—"

"Just Butch, Buttercup. Thanks." Butch interrupted the slightly shocked professor, a look of disinterest so familiar to Wren covering his features. It was all she could do to suppress a giggle, so instead the girl crossed her legs, stretching the green plaid skirt she wore to cover the length of her thighs.

"…Of course, forgive me. Mister Butch, Miss Buttercup. Please take a seat and we'll begin your daughter's evaluation." Mrs. Davis said, casting an obviously fake smile and gesturing towards two desks that neighboured Wren's, sliding behind her own convenient one in the front.

Buttercup was the first to walk, a stern and intellectual expression cast over her features. Wren knew it well; her mother, though similar to Butch in so many ways, was still amazingly different from the masculine counterpart she paired herself with.

While Butch sat and lazily cast his legs over his desk, picking at his teeth with a muddled finger, Buttercup crossed her legs and folded her hands with expectant neatness. She was professional, if not a bit strained; poised. That was her distinction, her perfection.

Wren knew how easily Buttercup could snap at her father (or at anyone for that matter), her mood turning within a split second at a misjudged phrase, but she also knew that Buttercup could behave like an ideal mother seen in all the childhood films ever shown during lazy, day time television – Wren had to presume this was because Buttercup, unlike Butch, had had a caring parent herself.

Maybe that was why she was always gentle, even guarded with Wren. She didn't allow the child to swear, hit or disrespect in her presence. And while a curse word came out every other sentence, paired with an entrée of fists, when Butch was in her proximity, only a stroke, smile and a few kind words were ever directed at Wren.

And she loved her mother for that.

She was the beam of the house, the stability of the family. But if Buttercup had mothered Wren alone, Wren was sure she would come to regret her parent. This is why Wren needed Butch, her father, her time-bomb, so much.

Butch was violent, primitive, and downright sadistic, but Wren loved him wholeheartedly. She knew he liked nothing more than a well-thrown punch, whether he was the one being hit or dealing it. He enjoyed being in control, mating, feeding; anything and everything even moderately narcissistic.

Butch symbolized the basic, underpowered program of mankind – he was the simple embodiment of the concept of 'survival of the fittest'.

But, at the same time, his emotional overdrive was Wren's crutch. Whenever home, she could see her father watching her with intent and focus, with _love_. In Butch's 'little Himmler' phrases, Wren could only identify pride and pure, unadulterated adoration for one of his most prized possessions, although the words certainly didn't suggest it.

And it deeply pleased Wren to see him staring at Buttercup with the same intent, though her mother's eyes never seemed to identify the motion as anything other than perversion.

It didn't matter though; Wren knew Buttercup loved him too, simply and purely. Especially since the birth of Wren's younger sister, Widow.

Wren had floated near the doorways of the nursery many a time over the past 5 years, intrigued by the sight of Butch and Buttercup in close proximity with one another.

A favourite memory of hers was when Widow had been but 6 months of age, and Buttercup sat in the child's room, rocking Widow in her own way while whispering out a sugar-sweet lullaby. It was a normal occurrence, Wren knew.

She remembered those moments from her own childhood, her Chemical-X enhanced brain allowing the wunderkind to recall all of the events since the day of her birth in crystalline detail.

And yet, this event was different from all those before, because Butch was there.

He was quiet, utterly quiet, a very odd something that seldom occurred. Butch's emerald eyes were closed, mouth limp, and his chin rested on the very edge of Buttercup's knee. His hand resided in a cloth-light grasp on Buttercup's folded elbow, and the strangest thing was, she wasn't shoving him away.

Buttercup wasn't punching Butch.

She wasn't snarling.

Instead, Buttercup was singing, and Wren could just see the ghost of a smile gracing her lips. She was happy there, with Widow, and Wren. With Butch.

And that how the Wren knew that Buttercup loved them all, more deeply than her sheltered being was willing to admit—

"So, Miss Buttercup, how are you this fine day? How is Widow's first year of Elementary School going?" Mrs. Davis interrupted Wren's train of thought, and the girl snapped her attention to the teacher poised in front of her, casting her young face into a smile of perfection. Wren's onyx hair gave an involuntary flutter, and she felt Buttercup's hand reach up to smooth it down, a movement invisible to all those who weren't gifted.

"Fine, thank you. Widow's lovely, but I think you should know that yourself. You're the teacher." Buttercup said curtly, and Wren snickered under her breath. Her mother always tried to be polite and courteous, but even in her best attempts ended up sounding discriminate and rude. She couldn't help it even _with_ restraint (unlike Butch) and neither could Wren – it was in their nature, their genetics.

They were the maddened, the rude ones in of their packs, the greens.

The violets that had never bloomed.

"Fuck, Butts. No need to scare the lady." Butch muttered, snickering in place of Wren. Buttercup twitched, and Wren could almost visualize the malice building in her over Butch's cursing in front of a respected public figure. He paid no attention however, lazily observing the filth under his fingernails as usual.

So instead, Buttercup settled for violently crunching on Butch's foot with her own, earning a hiss of payment from the aggressive male and a dumfounded look from Mrs. Davis.

"Miss Buttercup?" The teacher said warily, her hands pale and fidgeting over a stack of yellowed, aged papers on her desk. "Mr. Butch?"

"Mmph." Both adult greens answered in unison; one smug, one in pain.

"So then, let's get this going so I don't… take up much of your time. Your daughter is doing very well, and she's excelling well past her age. Takes after her mother I suppose," Mrs. Davis smiled gently, adjusting the shining spectacles on her face. Buttercup grinned; Butch rolled his eyes, digging for a lighter and cigarette buried within the depths of his jean pocket. "I expect she'll be able to move into secondary school at two years ahead of the normal age – sir, no smoking, I beg you – and progress even further. I'm sure Wren will be happy to know that Warbler and Weaver have achieved the same status."

As Mrs. Davis wandered on further in her words, Wren grinned; of course she was happy. The blue and crimson-clad boys had been her two best friends since they were toddlers, just crawling about in their diapers. Warbler was Wren's rival of sorts; he was strong, athletic, with eyes as fierce as a Wolverine's. He was the leader, the godfather of the triad that the super-children formed, Warbler's advancement in intellect and decisive planning leading to that decision.

Weaver, however, was a whole different story; he was the comforter of the group. The one who blushed when he'd notice a friend, shuffled his blond locks and waved a hand full of shyness. Weaver was young, small and moderately educated, but just barely the age of 9. His glasses, soft blue eyes and fragility rendered him different from Warbler and a more of a source of comfort to Wren rather than ambition, and she loved him like a true brother.

"But Wren, now you listen close," Mrs. Davis interrupted Wren's thoughts once again, and the 10-year-old stiffened, a grimacing pout on her thin lips as she crossed her hoodie-clad arms. Mrs. Davis leaned closer, narrowing her spectacled, ugly eyes. "In secondary school, there can be no hitting. No scratching, no stealing, no mocking. I believe we've had this chat before, my dear."

Wren stuck her tongue out, a casual reaction she often proposed to her teacher, and readied to reply. She raised her lip in a Butch-esque sneer, but before the words could leave her mouth, Buttercup interrupted; "She.. what?"

_Shit_. Wren didn't recall ever actually telling her mother of the actions Butch had encouraged her to commit at school. She thought that Buttercup had known, since nearly every morning Wren received a comment from her mother telling Wren to 'not let anyone give her crap', as her rucksack was fixated onto her back, and a complimentary glass of orange juice was placed in her awaiting hand.

Wren silently awaited the blow she was bound to receive, her lips pursed.

But it never came.

Instead, Buttercup was staring down Butch, her eyes in two thin slits. The normally sadistic alpha pouted mockingly, his eyes narrowed in a challenging manner. Wren swallowed, fidgeting with her hands; "Yes, well, of course, Mrs. Davis. I know that. Thank you, can we go now?"

Wren took advantage of the tense situation, seeing the obvious nervousness building in Mrs. Davis's weak, human frame. She wanted to get rid of her parents, she needed to. It was equivalent to her, Wren expected, as expelling a hungered tiger from her bathroom.

"Yes, of course. I'll have your advanced placement for secondary schools mailed to you then. Wren, Miss Buttercup, Mr. Butch. It's been short, but it's been quaint." Mrs. Davis nodded quickly, standing in a flurry and straightening out the various aged papers Wren had seen before upon her desk, stacking them into an orderly and too-perfect pile. Butch and Buttercup, still concentrated on each other as if in a state of mental warfare, stood.

Wren let out the giggle she had been holding in most of the evening, a slight nervousness still in her stomach, but halfly relieved her mother hadn't gone into a parenting sequence to scold her. Instead, she was focused on Butch, a snarl beginning to form on her upset mouth. He simply drew out the cigarette Wren knew he'd been itching to retrieve for the past half hour, lighting it with a dim smirk.

Wren knew Buttercup hated his guts, hated his attitude. But she smiled anyway as the family exited the lone classroom, letting a second pair of worriedly-watching parents and their child pass through; despite all of the deep rooted questions and whispers that had echoed through her class, the multiple vocalizations from other students of 'Wow, your parents must hate each other. They divorced?', Wren knew better.

The arguments and hate, it just made her parents love each other more, in their odd, special way.

Even now, Wren could see it. Her mother's eyes were glistening, narrowed, and infuriated. But if she peered closely, even the tiny 10 year old could see a respect, a look of impression. Buttercup's eyes held the slightest tinge of love.

And Butch was quietly reflecting it with equal intensity.

The sunset had already begun to fall with its' lovely violet hues and the day was coming to an end; Wren knew the fists and rage would begin to fly as soon as the floor of home was touched by the green's feet, with familiar charred walls and screams appearing all around.

But it would be a kind fight, a loving hate

Wren giggled; she was defiantly happy.

Happy in this dazed family she was incorporated into.

They day was infuriatingly calm.

It was good.


	5. Red

Disclaimer: I don't own the Powerpuff Girls.  
>This is a bit violent, less humerus than the rest of the fic. Partly due to writer's block and a 'BAWWWWW' mood, so just bare with me here. Basically, it's fight, STOP YOU BASTARDS, RAR, Sob, you're pretty when you're nice, I suck, we're always gonna shit on each other even when we don't feel like it.<p>

Anywho, cheers for reading, I hope you guys still enjoy this despite the melancholy ending!

PS. Listen to Monster by Meg and Dia. It's not my type of music, but it sort-of fits my odd mental image of Butch.

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><p>red. adj; a radical leftist in politics; to become passionately infuriated, enraged; the colour of blood, disdain, and hateful misery.<p>

* * *

><p>'<strong>Thirteen Years Old<strong>'

The screams and sirens that stung the air of the 9th-floor compound were piercing, shrill, and driving Butch into dark, unadulterated madness.

"GIVE IT BACK, YOU PRICK!"

"SHUT UP!"

"STUPID, BUTTFACE, PRICK!"

"MUUUUUUUM, SHE CALLED ME A PRICK. TELL HER SHE'S AN IDIOT!"

Sprawled limply on the heavily charred floor beside Butch, Buttercup stiffened as her name was called, her reddened eyes betraying the weariness from a conflict she had tried to end more than once in the past few hours.

Butch snarled quietly, dropping his Play Station controller for the third time within the past 15 minutes, growing more enraged with each precious, hollow thump it made against the earth; "I'll get it; fuckin' brats, I was _just _about to own that shitty boss and they just _had_ to ruin it, _again_."

Buttercup chuckled wearily, and Butch swore he heard her speak, the voice raspy and ridden with lethargy; "Such a girl."

"Fucking consol's worth more to me than life itself, _babe_." Butch snickered in reply, delighted as Buttercup groaned weakly with all the anger that remained in her drained form, her own controller limply dangling from her thin, scar-embroidered hand, collapsed like the rest of her body on the flooring in front of the television.

As Butch unlocked the door to 'the Battleground' (he and Buttercup always hid themselves away in the nursery when the kid's conflicts surpassed two hours), a thought crossed the male aggressor's mind.

Butch'd never seen Buttercup so worn, so tired, before.

Even during their most severe battles, all that lurked in Buttercup's eyes after their violent conclusions was pulsating energy and an awakened thirst.

But now, the heavy bags under her eyes betrayed Buttercup's genetic need to persevere when conflict arose - a trait that both Wren and the now eight-year old Widow had inherited from their parents.

And shit, _did_ they inherit it.

The nearly identical siblings fought impassioned, long, and hard, charring the flat they resided in and demolishing walls, furniture and plaster in their rage.

This certain fight was a record holder, Butch noted, a good five hours in length already.

Already, the space outside the 'bunker room' was smouldering; Butch stomped his bare heel into an ember that was dying on the soot-laden carpet underneath.

He smiled gently, closing his eyes to admire the burn in a private intimacy, his inner masochist writhing with pleasure.

The feeling didn't last.

As the tiny flame died out, a large, muscled mass impaled itself into Butch's stomach, knocking the wind from his form.

A plank fell from the damaged ceiling, breaking in it's already weakened state against Butch's top-head.

Wren's impact was heavy and at a critical angle; her normally-neat onyx clothing was ripped in dozens of tears large and small; her hair clipped, burnt and dusty.

The teenager's thin knuckles were bloodied, and Wren's dominant, jade eyes burned with a malicious intent that Butch knew so well, as she lifted herself from his frame.

Widow, however, floating jaggedly in mid-air across the demolished hallway, was a whole different story.

At 8 years old, she already matched Wren in power and appearance with a raw, superhuman strength; her fists carrying unexplainable energy and affliction potential.

Butch liked to think his inner champions punted out Buttercup's genetic line in that kid.

After all, Widow was like him in every way – emotion-controlled, primitive, and unnaturally aggressive. What she didn't get, she thieved or fought for, leading to multiple conflicts with her justice-centred mother.

With that in mind, Butch was honestly surprised when Buttercup shot down his innocent idea to buy a tranquillizer gun, ramming him through a steel girder after the idea was voiced (and just a few statements of, 'Well, ain't someone a pussy').

Shaking his frayed, unravelled spikes, Butch rose himself from his position on the ground, growling deep within his throat.

Wren charged, not even responding to his presence, a green-tinted fist prepared to strike her equally emerald counterpart.

It seemed that since neither Butch nor Buttercup had genetic parents, their gene mixings resulted in identically-formed children, quite literally half Butch, half Buttercup; the pattern recurred in both the blue and red households as well, with newborns hailing the same features as their siblings, as if they were belayed identical twins.

But they certainly didn't fight equivalently.

Widow took the impact, her tiny frame absorbing the blow with brutal resistance. The tiny girl grunted, baring her pearl-white teeth, and grabbed a hold of Wren's fist while it was still in the collision process.

Wren struggled in response, but couldn't free herself before she was tossed like a rag towards the ground, getting a barrage of fists into her bloodied, still-pretty face.

This, Butch decided, had gone too far.

He dove forward, using the massive, masculine strength that dwelled within his biceps to grab Widow in a stranglehold, feeling the seemingly fragile, younge flesh flail under his grasp. Widow's child-punk outfit tore at the friction, disintegrating further from the poor state it was already in.

Widow screamed, ever the defiant 8-year old, hating to not receive what she wanted. Her scratch-covered hands, clenched into fists, waved helplessly towards her battered sister on the floor, glaring daggers towards Butch's helpless mass.

"She started i—"

"Shut up, just shut. up." Butch growled out, tightening his grip on the oddly-strong preteen he held. She was red, her skin flaring with the passion of the past few hours, jade eyes enraged.

Wren, having the higher intellectual boost of Buttercup, knew the limited times when Butch was completely serious; she sealed her mouth into a thin line, swallowing hard.

"God, d'you know what yer mum _looks like _right now? Fuck, she's always able to pry you little bastards apart within like what, 5 minutes? But no, you just _had_ to dive right back into your shitty brawl as soon as she left. Fuck you guys, it was just a shitty broken_ toy_, no need to PMS all over it for 5 goddamn hours." Butch spat out, his masochistic snarl draining the strength out of the younge mess in his hands.

Widow might have been crude, brat-like, and aggressive, but she knew better than to cross her father.

Because she loved Butch, and she loved Buttercup.

Widow had been the absolute opposite of the caring, impassioned Wren since the very first days of her birth, but Butch still recognized the traits that were so reminiscent of Buttercup within her more often than not.

In just that exact display, Widow twirled her head, dumping her thick, black locks over her emerald irises, mumbling out a shaken sorry.

Beneath her and Butch, Wren's mouth curled into a desperate pout, her lips swirling as tiny crystalline dots appeared at the corners of her ash-stained eyes.

As much as he detested valiant displays of emotion, as much as Butch's inner commanders forbade him to do so - he hated to see his daughters cry, he hated their sorrows.

Butch was vile, a villain, a despotist; but he was also a father.

Wren and Widow's father.

"Oh, shit, just—aahh, just. Fuck. BUTTS." Butch felt the sharp edge of panic jab in his stomach, gulping nervously.

He did the best he could as sobs began to drain out from both Wren and then Widow's mouths, clear lines streaking down their dirt-stained cheeks, attempting to stroke their heads in reverse emotion against the loud and continuous wail that for once once wasn't anger.

Butch had few weaknesses, but this was defiantly one of them.

And to make it worse, he was it's cause.

Butch wished the light was on - the illumination would make it so much easier for his expression, rather than an uneducated grumble of words, to say his sorries.

And Buttercup was his saviour.

Her soft hair, her thin ankles. Butch sensed them as Buttercup entered the room, a picture of exhausted discord, but still lovely to his fearful expression.

Her agitated grumble was the chorus of angels amongst the heavy wailings that echoed from betwixt Butch's arms.

Butch didn't hear her words; he merely smirked dumbly as she approached him, her mouth curving in twisted, hate-filled ways. Butch could just make out the words 'fucker', 'cry', and 'honey'.

He was sure the last one didn't refer to him.

Buttercup's voice turned coaxing as she came within the hearing range of her two daughters; those tired, dry eyes melting into an instant liquid softness.

Her arms, bruised and foreboding, encircled the two girls, Butch's arms still around them. Wren grasped her father, her newly-teenage frame finally allowing her to embrace him around the waist.

Widow, in contrast, wrestled herself into Buttercup, and the mother tenderly stroked her war-torn hair – an odd, foreign sight to Butch.

He never knew that Buttercup had had a fawn inside of her.

Ever since Butch could recall, Buttercup was always the red, the passionate aggressor. The one who would never be a parent.

And yet, through this harsh, dominant male's eyes she was more nurturing, protective and kind than both Blossom and Bubbles combined.

It was an odd conclusion to come to – Buttercup's body was rough, several shades of bruise-like tones; it was coated in foreign blood, and pulsated with a god's fury.

But in her mental trenches Buttercup was always, _always_ soft - a mother in the purest sense.

And somewhere deep within his core, Butch felt the sear of envy burn like kerosene.

And the world snapped back into reality.

Wren still sobbed within Butch's arms, but the antagonist recognized the pained gasps that retched from his daughter's throat were no longer of verbal cause.

Butch lowered his head, gently shifting the teenage female in his arms to observe a wider expanse of her body.

His ancient thinking began to click gears - the pain of a foreign form associated itself with death, and Butch's eyes narrowed as he searched for symbols of this flesh-borne devastation upon her figure.

Wren was littered with bruises, scratches – Butch winced as the thought of holding a tiny, marred Buttercup in his arms jumped into his head – and a few large, but minor, burns.

There was no obviously large flesh wound, so Butch's mind shifted to the analysis of an internal injury. The paternal figure narrowed his eyes, using the slightest burst of an x-ray wave to peer in at Wren's skeletal system, instantly finding the cause of the girl's pained breaths.

A steel-strength rib was cracked, bent. Poking into the soft lung tissue that was causing the tender Wren so much angst.

Buttercup could not find out, she wouldn't – it would be the death of Widow.

Butch glanced up at the just-mentioned female, quick to observe her reaction before any further movements were made – he judged Buttercup quickly, to see if she had noticed the gasps of her beloved teenager, or if she was still preoccupied with the younger, still-sobbing bundle wrapped in her and Butch's arms.

Widow was the victor.

She touched her mother's face, lip curled into a bitter pout as she sobbed out in a language far too innocent for her Butch-trained mouth about what a 'meany' Wren was – how she wouldn't share that stupid 'iPod' thingey; how she had _so_ hit her first.

Butch smiled; fuck, if she'd just have gotten a 'Y' chromosome, she'd be Butch junior - the girl could lie like a vagabond.

And Buttercup being the secretive, tender figure that she was, nodded at her daughter, relief evident in her eyes over the suddenly-halted conflict. She murmured kind yet scolding words towards Widow, tucking a loose strand of coal-black hair behind the girl's tiny ear, kissing her forehead with a characteristic toughness.

Wren said nothing.

"Butts," Butch took the mostly calm moment to speak, ignoring the fact that the four appeared like a huddling family after a fire's crude disaster. "I'm going to go clean up Himm—Wren. Calm Widow down a tad more, yah hear?"

Buttercup didn't insult him for the simple, non-intellectual language; didn't read past his lie. She simply looked towards Butch as he rose, gently but not obviously supporting Wren, whispering a quiet 'Com'mere, I know where it hurts' into her bruised ear. Wren gave the slightest nod of understanding.

Buttercup watched until the pair sauntered into the bathroom silently, the sound of chilled sobbing still quietly present in the unheard air. A warm, soft look of thanks was written on Buttercup's face, not a word of bitterness present, tinted with that odd, unreadable emotion that Butch feared more than defeat – kindness.

And it shook Butch's core more than he would ever be willing to admit, more than the ancient gears of his head were willing to process.

Buttercup was complex; built of the lesser, still sweet, components of good.

Butch was not.

Buttercup was combative, contentious, but could unveil a sliver of the care underneath whenever the time came.

And Butch never could.

Never.

All he could be for her, for Widow, for Wren, was all that he currently was. The father who couldn't say 'I love you', the mate who would never marry or even think of it.

The prick who spoke with his fists and needles.

But it had been 15 years, Butch thought, and here Buttercup was. Here were two children of his; here was a home.

A battered, pugnacious, threatening home.

With broken children, and a wilfully beaten wife.

As Butch whispered for Wren to hold still, to not speak, Butch grasped a small syringe filled with a bubbling, clear serum.

Wren didn't wriggle as the Chemical X flowed into her overextended body; she knew her injuries instinctively, she knew what the injected solution would mend her body better than a surgeon.

That both she, Butch, and Widow would be in worse trouble than a broken rib if Buttercup found out about it's innocent existence.

And at the same time, Wren, like Butch, knew that the walls of this miserable, surviving flat would never lose their red stain.


	6. Yellow

Disclaimer: I don't own the Powerpuff Girls.

The before last one, and a bit of a nervous one. I've tried hard on this, but it was written in several components at 3 in the morning over a few days, so sorry if the verse seems a bit jumpy. Anywho, this ones goes: leave, sad, happy, roar, come back.

Enjoy!

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><p>yellow; adj. the colour of fading bruises; representing irritation, warning, jealousy, deceit, and mourning.<p>

* * *

><p>'<strong>15 Years Old<strong>'

He left on a warm, humid night in May.

It had been thunder-storming, and no one had heard him go in-between the heavy noise of streaming water and the echoing, tired snores of night.

When morning came, he had left no sign of himself behind.

Even the old, nostalgically-framed picture that hung in the nursery since the days of Wren's toddlerhood was taken down from its hanging space, neatly placed upside-down in the leftmost corner of the empty room.

It was exactly 10 centimetres from each side of the wall, placed at an accurately measured 90 degree angle. His grinning image was coloured over in thick, black ink over the glass, but not the picture itself.

He would never have done such a thing, we thought.

No-one had been in that room for days, perhaps it was a vandal or a casualty of Widow's odd sleepwalking habits.

And besides, nothing else had been disturbed.

The television was turned off, the iPod in its reckless position on the carpet. No food was taken from the cupboards.

Naturally, Widow was the first to notice.

She rose early in the mornings, her delicate age of 10 giving her the energy to open her eyes before the sun peaked over it's horizon at sleepy Townsville.

The flat was quiet, Wren remembered Widow telling her, in that uncomfortable state of 'too quiet'.

There were no screams; no pots were clanging in the kitchen from Butch's usual charred attempts at scrambled eggs.

Widow had thought he was just sleeping in – he did so frequently – and so she had ignored it, but a passing glance into her parent's dank, ill-lit room proved her wrong.

The bed was neat, silent, the imprints of his hands still visible on the gentle cascades of Buttercup's back. Streaks of light battered the sleeping female's body, and the empty, hollow space beside her.

Butch, was gone.

And something had alerted Widow to the fact that he had not just 'gone for stroll'.

Butch was never out in the mornings – he hated the calm, hated seeing the surplus of human life on the way to their 'mundane roads to an unfulfilling death'.

And Butch would have never, ever left Buttercup undisturbed.

He would have gone to check on Wren and Widow too - an attemptedly-quiet peak into their rooms was routine before any other day-break actions.

Wren remembered hearing Widow scream, after those mental notations had probably been made – it was unearthly; a distant, broken wail.

A primitive, programmed reaction to the loss of an all-important caretaker.

They'd still had no proof then – Buttercup had rushed from her bed, her eyes red and aching with the need for rest; she comforted the sobbing Widow.

He had just forgotten to check on her, he had just left to get something to eat.

Just wait a little, Widow, he'll be back soon.

Wren remembered the words with a crystalline clarity.

Because they were just so inconceivably wrong. Seconds had turned into minutes, minutes to hours, hours to days, and days finally to weeks.

Wren lifted her thin, pale hand to her face, counting the fingers silently.

Five weeks now, she decided, her father had left five weeks ago.

And Wren knew why Buttercup wasn't searching for him.

She said that if, '…he'd wanted to go, then fuck, he could leave at any time. It wasn't like they were married or anything.'

But Wren saw it in her mother's increasingly gaunt, saddened eyes. As hard as they tried to remain, as much as Buttercup crossed her arms and rolled her eyes, she missed Butch with the heart of a lover.

Wren awoke frequently during the dank hours of night. She'd lie awake, her eyes plastered to the ceiling, listening to the common mixture of the frightened breath of sleep, and a soft, quiet sobbing from the room next to her.

Buttercup was broken, but she would never search.

Not on the hard, firm mask of pride that Wren's mother held. She still smirked, she played with her silent children.

But Buttercup was fading away into the background.

Even as she now approached Wren, quietly mumbling 'breakfast' with the tiniest touch of her hair, Wren saw the black shadows under her mother's jutting cheekbones. Her shirt, perfectly fitted and supple before, now hung like a janitor's filthy rag against Buttercup's frame.

But Wren didn't comment; she couldn't.

Widow entered the kitchen shortly after Buttercup, her tiny 10-year-old body plopping down on the customary wooden seat that had been her stool since the tender years of childhood.

She was quiet, a far cry from the agitated, disobedient child she had been before, staring down at the tender oak that the table was made from. Widow didn't speak; silence persevered through the atmosphere, the only noise in the room coming from the supple jingle of clanking silver from the breakfast Buttercup was throwing together.

Wren glanced to her side, briefly cracking over the lowered head of Widow still boring into the table. The empty chair beside her was barren, casually thrown out in a disorganized fashion; slightly dusty.

Butch's chair, Wren thought, her father's chair.

Buttercup had never touched it, never tucked it in. So it stood - a silent, screaming reminder of what had been in the golden clock's reverse.

It seemed then that Widow had noticed where Wren's uneasy gaze was travelling, her own emerald eyes following the path of her sister's. The tiny female's brow knit together, her lips pursed in frustration, and Wren watched as the ruby pearls moved together, unconsciously forming one single, familiar word, "Daddy."

A loud clatter echoed from behind Wren's clipped head, and her eyes shot backwards, spotting Buttercup rushing to raise three scattered plates from the ground. The heroine cursed under her breath, a colourful array of hate streaming from her cracked lips.

Wren swallowed in worry - her mother's expression was unnatural; a state of weakness that had never before donned her gaze at just one, simple, knowing word. Buttercup's eyes were fading, a boiling and frustrated look upon them. They were damp and sodden, the crystal gems of tears hanging from the black caresses of her eyelashes.

"Sorry, guys. T's ruined." Buttercup mumbled, and Wren watched her quickly throw the damp yellow mush that had lain on the plate's surface slide into the trash. "Grab yourself whatever from the fridge. I'm not hungry."

"You're never hungry." Widow said bluntly, the slight edge of a once ever-present arrogance sliding into her tone. "Just shaddap and eat, mum."

"I'm not hungry, dear." Buttercup answered coolly, bitterly. Widow silenced immediately, crossing her strong, porcelain-toned hands over her form and throwing her overgrown head to the side, avoiding eye contact as a personal defence of pride.

Buttercup left without another word, silently heading up to her room for what had become almost a ritual of staring, sleeping and bitter mumbling.

Wren stayed quiet in her dualism, obeying the command to feed herself and Widow. A she retrieved a pair of bright, crimson apples; it was all she could do not to leave herself thinking about how long this would last.

How long it would be until Buttercup in her silent mourning, in her yellow, sickly skin, would fade away just like Butch.

And time carried on its gentle sweep, singing it's silent lullaby until the poised days of July.

Wren rose first that day; not out of alertness, not out of the depression-rooted starvation her frame had felt, but due to a faint, twinkling noise echoing from the kitchen.

Wren was the alert key of the household now; Buttercup barely rose at all in the recent times. She was still as a stone for most hours of the day, a glass of milk or juice being the sole source of unwanted nutrition she consumed.

If the frail Buttercup wasn't powered by a certain, well documented chemical, Wren guessed she would have long been dead.

And so the elder daughter rose herself from her heightened bunk bed cot, a thin veil of green energy emitting from her frame as Wren silently drifted through the stagnant morning air, careful not to wake the resting Widow.

Wren seized the muscles of her fists briefly, surging them with an experimental dose of energy, just in case the noise that still sounded periodically from the kitchen was a threat rather than a coincidence.

But as the kitchen opened and came into view, all the strength jolted out of her form in a dumb, single motion.

A chair was sprawled backwards, a muddled, dirtied figure sitting on it's dusted stool, his green eyes shining with a blank, agitated knowing. The voice that came from the figure was familiar, but the sound barely penetrated into Wren's seized form; "Shit Himmler, I know I've been gone a while, but t's no reason to go all catfish on me."

Wren blinked, staring at the certain male who had long disappeared.

Butch signed, shaking his head. The hair that hung from it like a worn mop was filthy, coated in grime from weeks of misuse.

"Speak up kiddo."

Wren's mouth opened the slightest amount, but a barely audible grunt was the only noise that managed to echo. She closed it again, swallowing long and hard.

And then, Wren screamed.

The sound was long and harsh, drawling, but in no way miserable.

Wren charged, her arms outstretched as if in a highly aggressive assault, and Butch gritted his teeth, bracing himself for the impact of a strong, now-trained fist.

It never came. Two arms wrapped themselves around Butch, and a soft, warm head buried itself in his shoulder, spasms of grief rocking through Wren's form. She spoke softly against her father's neck, her words muffled by his filthy shirt's edge; "You're back."

Butch smirked lightly, lifting a hand to stroke the back of his daughter's onyx expanses, his soft voice breaking; "Fuck kiddo, no need for a thousand emotions. Just had tah figure some stuff out."

Wren didn't answer, only gripping her father tighter. The diamond-strength muscles, the criss-cross feeling of scars under her fingers. It was warm, it was home and familiar.

It was father.

But the moment didn't last.

The household surrounding the two had reacted to Wren's initial scream, and as Butch's eyes lifted, hazy, an equal pair stared back into his face from across the small kitchen space's expanse.

Wren stiffened, sliding a hand off of her father, head turning to stare her mother, expression blank, in the face.

And slowly Buttercup's visage twisted, mutated, her lips moving soundlessly, the corners pulling taught. Her brow knit together, hands curling into fists that caused the very veins to pulsate.

Buttercup cracked; letting loose a feral, ungodly snarl.

"You _fucker_."

Butch pressed himself against the wall behind him, helplessly shoving an exasperated, sobbing Wren from his body before the emerald orb smashed into him, the wall against Butch's back crumbling away and falling to the earth below.

Buttercup clawed at his frame, her hands seizing, becoming violet with tones of yellow as the veins within snapped at their holder's sudden stress.

Butch did not react.

Buttercup shoved the male's living carcass into the earth, her hands sinking into his throat after proper lacerations had been embezzled into his shoulders. And all Butch did was watch her, watch the smouldering, infuriated pits of her eyes, judging him, wanting him to react, to hate him. To strike at her form; "Fuck you, fuck you, _fuck_ you. Go to hell, go away; _fuck you_."

Butch simply listened to Buttercup's rasp, the hollow voices of his terrified children, Widow now joining the broken scene, crying above. He felt her loud heartbeat pulsating thickly against him flesh, threatening to close his shrinking jugular.

And Butch smiled; "Hate me."

"_I hate you._" Buttercup snarled in response, crawling towards Butch's shoulders, her hair hanging around her neck, the fingers outstretched. And she lifted him from the earth, grasping his shirt collar, grasping the blood seeping happily from the wounds she'd caused; "I hate you."

"T's right, love, " Butch purred, his eyes narrowing mundanely. His fists, patched with violet bruises, hung limply at his sides. Faintly, Butch could feel individual rock fragments from the fall and plaster burning within his skin.

And Buttercup threw him, so quickly that Butch only recognized the feeling when the impact of a neighbouring brick wall collided with his back, the snapping of Butch's ribs sounding dully against the crumbling of stone.

Then, there was silence, broken only by the sudden, soft sobbing voice of Buttercup, standing several metres away.

Her head was lowered, hair brushing gently over her wettened face, the remnants of a loose t-shirt covering the tight stretches of skin that had once been a lovely body. Butch frowned, ignoring the burning aches of pain that racketed his body. Buttercup spoke.

"_I hate you_."

"I know. Go eat."

"I hate you."

"Eat."

"_No._" Buttercup raised her face, lips drawn back to expose a row of white, malicious teeth. "No, _never_ again. To whatever the fuck you say, no."

"Don't be a fucking idiot." Butch simply stated, brushing a bit of loose gravel from his shoulder with his less injured hand, though a small piece of a finger was still missing from it's corner.

"Where did you go. Where, why didn't you tell me? Why did you colour over our picture?" Buttercup reacted suddenly, stepping forward to approach Butch, fists curling into the knowing, taught fists against her length. She stopped a yard from the edge of the injured male's feet, as if a barrier of abomination existed between the two. "Tell. me."

"Russia. You wouldn't have let me. So that the kids wouldn't miss me. Why do you car—"

"Shut up. Why?"

"I needed to figure some stuff out."

Buttercup's eyes narrowed menacingly, a barrier of red around the jade irises. She crouched down onto one knee, the spitting image of an assassin before his final blow, the jutting form of her collarbones exposed; "What was so fucking important and holy that, shit, you had to go and leave us? _Your family_; or are we just some toy that you got bored of? _Speak_."

Butch blinked, his eyes tranquil, apathetic. His rose tongue darted out before speaking, licking at the smallest droplet of blood that had spurted from the cracked crevice of his mouth; "I wanted to know what love was."

Buttercup, readied for a minute and insignificant answer, dropped her thinned jaw, eyes losing the smallest edge of menace; "You f.. You, what?"

"Hate me, Butts." Butch smiled, shifting slowly towards Buttercup's tensed, apprehensive form. She swirled backwards, a predatory snarl echoing from behind her lips, but Butch moved forward still; "Hate me more."

Buttercup was rigid, her form rooted to the earth. Her mouth was dry, mentality forming the words Butch asked to hear, but mouth unable to speak them due to the sudden, damned drought.

And then, a pair of warm, familiar arms slowly encircled Buttercup's waist - humble, domestic, and intimate.

Tears pricked the corners of her eyes; Buttercup hated him.

"Despise me, kick me, fuck, do whatever you want. Before I left, I didn't know I had a reason to stick around. Hell, I was thinking that one day I'd fly in and boom, there you'd be, shagging some random douche from the street. I mean come on, t's not like we ever hugged or made dope-eyes at each other, there weren't really a reason to stick around. So I left, to see if I missed you. To see if it would matter," Butch paused, pursing his lips thickly, sweating as his mind clicked, trying to form the complex phrases it could barely manifest.

"And it did. God, I missed you. And Wren, n' Widow. I fucking _missed_ you guys," Butch's purse regenerated, a grin now shadowing over the bloodied expanses of his lips; "I wanted you to hit me. I hit myself, I hit everything. Couldn't go past a month on my own without going batshit insane. So, let me stay, let me in. Hate me, but let me stay, 'cause I can't take it anymore, Butts. Fuck, t'tell the truth, I think I love yah."

Buttercup was silent, her own mind clicking, working almost physically. Butch waited calmly, his cracked ribs straining as he pressed the worn Buttercup against his chest tighter, attempting to gently rest his chin atop the peak of her head. The female shivered below him, unnerved by the close, foreign action, but she didn't push him away.

Buttercup didn't understand; her emotions were complex, eyes storming. But no matter what the confusing voids that raged in her chest were, no matter how she wished to mangle Butch, destroy him for his breaking of her rules, she couldn't let him leave just yet; "Stay here."

Buttercup said it simply, and Butch answered with a notorious smirk and the smallest, curt nod; "Thanks. Hire a carpenter, or whoever the fuck fixes walls. Kids'll get all sick n' slimey from the cold."

And a rough, dry crack echoed from Buttercup's throat – the first laugh in the cold bouts of months. Her fists uncurled, and quietly but surely she reached out a hand, a wary asking of Butch to rise with her; "I'm not forgiving you, fuck off and stand."

And he did.

Butch winced, but the smirk remained, playing on his lips.

Buttercup laughed again, the tingling of silver bells chiming from somewhere deep within her.

Wren and Widow screamed from several floors above, their ebony heads protruding from the rubble of the aforementioned wall.

Cars streamed out of their homes in the distance.

The skies were changing from their yellow hues.

Day was breaking.

Somewhere in the distance, twin birds let loose their song.


End file.
